Rhythm and Melody - Making Sense in an Age of Madness
I’ve spent precious little time, in the past months, facing down the page and spilling some ink in the rare moments that present themselves. We stand at the brink of some sort of cataclysm, and I keep waiting for the thunderous cacophony of death and destruction as it rains down upon us. But rather, we are subjected to a slow bleed; a delicate rot, that takes the wondrous detail of life as we knew it, and slowly draws the colour out of it. For the past eighteen months, we’ve been subjected to the strangest disturbance, manipulation and abuse known most western nations.
Recall the admonition: Put no trust in princes. What was once, perhaps, admirable caution and prudence has become a systematic attack on so much that we hold dear. Again, we are cut off from the sacraments - the body and blood of our Lord and saviour - without which you shall not have life in you. We are conditioned to stop, stall and digitally genuflect, before crossing the threshold of every single building we seek to enter. We all wear our stinking, fetid masks as a symbol of obedience to a regime of bureaucratic demagogues that seemingly have no interest in the questionable efficacy (and related risks) of such practices. We pathologise the wonder and beauty of communion with those we love - a tender smile; an embrace; a kiss; a firm handshake; a fine whiskey shared with brothers bound by faith, fraternity and fidelity. We count kilometres, avoid friend and family, and pretend that the case numbers don’t keep rising, despite the draconian measures inflicted upon us.
I’ve taken solace in sound and song, more than anything lately. That and reading. A lot of reading. Prayer, always. The Divine Office. Playing a lot of guitar. Stepping away from the toxic repetition of the same bad news, from the same bad sources, touting the same bad solutions. I don’t pretend to have all the answers. Or any answers, really. I do have questions - many questions. And an instinctive aversion to tyranny, coercion and deceit. Thus, it’s been a rough few months. There are glimmers of hope, here and there, but all in all, I have such little trust in princes at this point, that I can see nothing short of madness and futility in the panacea they propose to grant us the freedom and rights accorded by natural law - not legislation.
We are made in the image and likeness of God, with a dignity and a divine purpose that renders all this mess and noise just that - sound and fury. It has been thus, in music, that I find so much solace. The kind of odd, futile obsession with tone that can plague guitarists, can be an intoxicating distraction in a plague of panic, I assure you. I always smile when I pray the psalm: Awake, my soul, Awake, O lyre and harp! I will awake the dawn! There is a wondrous logic, beauty and reason to be found in song - and it has, for me again, become a refuge from discursive thought, when it becomes plagued by frustration, tipping towards despair.
The months ahead will offer no respite, brothers - so take respite in prayer, and the beauty of silence, that can even be found in song. It is still there, in the mischievous smile of your daughters. It is there, in the furrowed brow of your inquisitive sons. It is there, in the colour of the sunset on the distant hills. It is there, in the unmistakable warmth of the woman you love. It is there, at the foot of the cross, with Our Lady, who pondered every mystery of her beloved son in her heart.
Keep the rhythm of a life that has purpose, predictability and prayer to mark time - but find the melody of an unspoken truth that can only be carried in silence and song, to make sense amidst the madness, and draw closer to He who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and weighed the heavens with his palm.
By Gaetano Carcarello